  Listen! for I hear the dove’s sweet song, So tender and mournfully sad, Up from the vale where the maples bloom, And the springtime e’er maketh glad. Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime? Was thy home in Southern bowers? Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air, Than in this grand Northland of ours? Tell me, sweet dove; for thy mournful voice Hath wakened old memories to-day That have only slept through the weary years That have silently flown away. Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove, That thy dear song is never gay? Art thou calling down the emerald glades In vain, pleadingly, day by day? Thy plaintive voice stirs a tenderness Called up from the shadowed deeps, Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves, And a dream-world forever sleeps. Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove, O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet; And the lilies bloom in the vale below— Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet. The sun and the wind are caressing thee, And all other songsters are gay; Canst thou not forget, and joyously sing As the bright hours pass away? A mysterious, subtle regret; There are losses that sadden evermore, And they cling to the worn heart yet. |
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